


Eleven Weeks

by cathcacen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-04-29 00:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14460897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathcacen/pseuds/cathcacen
Summary: Meet Sansa Stark - Faithful doggie-mum, first-class costume designer, and a woman with an impressive dependency on coffee. With eleven weeks to spare, Sansa's job as replacement to lead designer (and her friend) Myrcella Baratheon is simple: finish up the remains of the costume and make sure nothing falls to pieces.Enter Jon Snow - Lead actor playing the Prince, the fresh-faced Hollywood sweetheart has a lot on his plate trying on uncomfortable codpieces and fending off his very handsy co-star. Little does he know he's in for the best eleven weeks of his life.





	1. The Days Drag On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amymel86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/gifts).



> This started out as a drabble in my head, but at the behest of one delightful Amymel86 soon turned into behemoth of a plot. The first three chapters are written in support of the Jonsa Charity Fundraiser, and sponsored by Amy herself.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and please do read and comment if you like!

She’s not quite sure what time it is, but her four PM coffee has long since gone cold. There’s a pile of indigo velvet at her feet, lined with fur and trimmed in gold. Pants, undershirt, doublet, and overcoat sit folded neatly at the end of her work table. Her hands smart, and her fingers, knuckles, and palms are raw from hours spent hammering, welding, and crafting. It’s tough work, but Sansa Stark is a perfectionist, and perfectionists get the job done no matter what. 

The costumers’ department is nestled on a quiet hill far away from the festivities of the filming grounds, but by all accounts, the man she’s meant to be fitting should’ve arrived hours ago. She glances out the window into the sprawling acres beyond, seeking out that point in the horizon where treetops meet faded denim sky. Somewhere in the trees, a bird of some sort lets out a mournful coo, the prelude, she imagines, to another long night spent in wait.

A series of pops and cracks offer relief as she stretches out. Sansa sighs, then glances up at the clock. Nine PM, and not an actor in sight.

“Fucking diva.” And she’s not wrong – over the course of the past week, her team has been scrambling to get together some last-minute pieces for an amended scene. The lead actress – a fresh-faced Hollywood sweetheart – had shown up five hours late, giggling and half-drunk.

Rumour has it she’s been throwing herself at her co-star.

The sound of hastening footsteps calls her back to the present,and she looks up just in time to see the man in question stumble through the door. She’s just about resigned to a drunk fitting when he lets out a sheepish chuckle and straightens – all too apologetically to suggest he’s been drinking at all.

“Sorry! I’m sorry – I should’ve knocked. I’m Jon.”

He’s not all that bad, she supposes. If she were honest, she’d admit that Jon Snow deserved every ounce of the attention he’d been receiving as the new Rhett Butler of Hollywood – dark eyes that gleamed and crinkled when he smiled and hair that curled almost rogueishly over his brow. Still, she’s annoyed at his tardiness, and isn’t in a good enough mood to hide it. “You’re late.”

The man manages a sheepish smile as he strides over, toussling curls with a quick brush of his thick hands. “Sorry. We had to retake the boat scene over ten times.” A brief pause follows, in which the man’s voice takes on a slightly guilty cast. “It was a little challenging.”

“I’ll bet.” The director had sent over the amended scripts last week, but she hasn’t had time to look through the details. She hands him his undershirt and tunic, then jerks her head at the changing screens. “You know the drill.”

Jon glances curiously at the rest of the pile, but does as he’s told. While he changes, Sansa sets out to put together the remaining components of that particular outfit – a beautifully-tailored suit for a ball. Her hand stops over his codpiece – painstakingly hammered throughout the day to his exact measurements. She’s expecting it to be a bit larger than needed – but in her experience, male stars have egos to maintain. She’s happy to let him have his, if it means she gets the job done and the money in the bank.

“So can I ask you a question?” Jon peers at her over the edge of the screen. “What happened to Ella?”

Myrcella Baratheon had signed on to the project in its initial stages. It had taken her three months to complete all the costumes required – but by the time the reshoots had been announced, she’d taken another job and was otherwise unavailable. _I told them you’re just as good, San,_ she’d laughed gaily over the phone two days into her new project. _It’s so sunny here in Sicily! I’ll bring you back some lemoncakes._

She swallows the bitter taste in her mouth, along with the sentiment that it had been _her_ project. _Myrcella’s your friend. You love her. And Sicily will always be there_. The thought is easier to stomach when she considers the benefits of staying put. And when she speaks, she’s genuinely happy. “She’s doing that historical drama with Canal+ in Italy.”

“Oh, yeah.” Jon steps out from behind the screens, all loosely-laced tunic and ripped jeans. “So you’re her replacement?”

“Yup.” She straightens. “And she’s mine. You can call me Sansa.”

“Right. Sansa. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He turns away as she makes her adjustments, only letting out the occasional grunt at an overly-spirited tug or pull of his tunic. It isn’t until she’s done hooking him into the garment that he speaks again. “So Ella’s in Italy doing your job, and you’re here doing hers? Why?”

“I’ve got some business to take care of in town.” She helps him into his overcoat, then brushes at the finely-woven fabric with a lint roller. It takes mere seconds to thread a needle, and within moments, she’s stitching up the darts to better the fit of the garment. “And I’m only needed here eleven weeks.”

“Let’s hope you have a pleasant eleven weeks, then.” He grins, then steps back and holds out his arms. She twirls a finger about, and can’t help but to be impressed when the man obeys without question. One turn. Another. Pose after pose to showcase the fit of the garment, parries and lunges alike. It isn’t until he’s swinging his arm about that he remarks, his voice tinged with mild amusement, “You know, this outfit’s for the new ball scene, right? Shouldn’t we be testing out dance moves instead?”

She rolls her eyes. Myrcella’s voice rings in her head. _He’s a flirt – they all are, especially Theon from logistics, but don’t be fooled by it._ And she isn’t. “Test them out with your co-star. I hear she’s got the hots for you.”

That shuts him up. It’s industry insider information that Jon Snow doesn’t flush so much as he broods, and he doesn’t disappoint in person. The man mumbles something about a misunderstanding and his voice lowers to a deep, almost gritty quality. “The feelings are not mutual, thank you.”

“Alright, I’m sorry, I was only teasing. Don’t get your knickers in a knot.” He looks up as she pauses, and she can’t help but to grin. “Especially since I need you to put these on.”

The deadpan stare he levels her with is enough to bring a bubble of laughter to her chest. Ever dutiful, he takes the codpiece from her hands. “Thanks. I hate it.”

“I worked hard on it.” She reaches out to rap the metal with her knuckles, the inverted cup nonetheless emitting a faint echoing sound. “Go put it on, then let me know how it fits.”

Jon lets out a grumble, but she swears she catches the glimpse of a smile on his face. Half a moment later, it’s gone, the man himself hidden away behind the screen once more. “I thought you had actual metal workers to do this stuff for you.”

She takes a long sip of her cold coffee. “Our first meeting, Snow, and you’re already insulting me. What do you think we costumers do all day? Sketch and compare notes on actors’ sizes?”

“Well, I just thought you’d have assistants for the hard labour.” He steps back out, pants off and codpiece on. She takes a moment to appreciate the fine contours of his quads, the muscles of his calves. Jon Snow definitely does not skip leg day. Some cracks must show in her professionalism, because the man is wearing an almost cheesy, knowing grin when she deigns to look up again. The bastard. “How do I compare, then?”

Shrugging comes easier than she’d expected. “Somewhat average.” His feigned gasp of disapproval is instantly halted by the pants she sends flying at him. “Now put these on so I can see how they fit together.”

“You’re a slave driver, Stark.” The man is a tease. Still, his demeanour makes it easy – all too easy to play the game, and Sansa has never been one to back down from a play of words. She decides he really isn’t half bad after all. The revelation is surprisingly welcome.

She lets out a chuckle, sinking down onto her armchair. “Are you going to make it hard for us to work together?”

Jon’s only response is to emerge, the glint of his codpiece only just visible between the opening of his pants. He glances down – then looks up to meet her eyes, thick brows slightly furrowed. She thinks it’s equal parts horror and equal parts amusement. “No more than you’ve made it hard for me.” Two knuckles rap against the steel. The lack of hollow echoing suggests the garment fits perfectly.

She lets out a breath. _Fuck. This guy’s good.  
_


	2. Holding On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An integral part of Jon's costume malfunctions, prompting a visit to the Costumer's home.

“Snow, you gotta tighten those moves.”

He looks up with a grunt as the blonde strides towards him, clipboard in hand and a tumbler of herbal-tea-du-jour in the other. She’s a beautiful woman, he supposes – she’s immensely tall and well-built, with arms that look fully capable of choking a man to death. In her free time off her directing job, Val does Jiu-jitsu.

He’s especially impressed by the way she has no problem manhandling the crew. She’s especially known for dragging around props on her own, yelling instructions through a loudspeaker. Rough around the edges, his agent had said – but a bloody genius.

He likes her well enough. After all, she’s the better blonde of the pair he’s currently engaged to work with. He’s spent the last four hours whisking _that blonde_ around a crowded ballroom. His role demands he court her; hers demands she remain impassive and unimpressed.

As far as acting goes, he’s pretty sure they’ve done nothing but fail miserably all day. He’s too far from interested and she’s too far from being disinterested.

“I’m trying,” He mutters, giving his waistband a light tug. Under, the offending piece of scrap metal chafes, and he has to fight back a groan as his already-tender bits take the brunt of it. “Fuck. This is crazy.”

Val doesn’t even bother to hide the fact that her gaze lingers; she glances down, then up again, lips curled in a way that suggests she knows exactly what the problem is. “That’ll teach you to give the costumer department your actual size. Do me a favour – learn to exaggerate a bit next time, won’t you?”

“Yeah, well – I didn’t think this damn scene would take so long.”

“That’s the problem. You just had to go and screw your co-star, and now she has trouble doing anything but gaze adoringly into your eyes.” She makes a face.

Through clenched teeth, he manages a quiet apology. Then, as indignation flares: “That was on another set and literally four months ago. I thought she’d be over it by now.”

“Honey –” Val laughs, then drains her cup of tea. “—between you and me, her agent was adamant that she would only take the job if you did. So work it out with her, or we’re going to be stuck here all week.” Another glance downwards. “The way I see it, you do that, or risk shaving your balls down to size. For good.”

They don’t fare much better throughout the rest of the day. Dany’s part – that of a princess with no time to spare for her many royal suitors – lacks heart. They squint into the screen currently replaying their final take, and she lets out a groan, her expressive eyebrows furrowing as she buries her face in her hands. “God, that’s awful! I’m sorry, Snow – can you turn off the charm so I can actually pretend to hate you?”

Ever dutiful, he manages a wry smile. If he’s honest with himself, Dany isn’t that bad of an actress – she’s not even that bad of a person.

He just doesn’t feel it.

“I’m afraid not. Don’t worry about it – we’ll pick it up again tomorrow, yeah?”

She leans back a little. Beneath the softened curl of her lips and the half-lidded gentleness of her eyes, he senses _possession_. The smile of a woman who thinks she’s won – one who wears her charm like armour, in full confidence that it will protect her heart no matter what. “I’m counting on it,” She tells him.

 _We’ll finish this_ , his conscience whispers. Guilt nips at his toes. We’ll finish this job, and then I’ll tell _her how I feel._

It’s dark by the time he finds the right house. The one-way street is fairly broad, but an assortment of haphazardly-parked cars have lent an aura of lawlessness to the area, cutting three lanes down to the meager one. It isn’t until he’s nudged away several overgrown rose branches creeping up the brick that the copper-plated number reveals itself, along with the doorbell.  

Only a week has passed since his last fitting with the new costume lead, but he already misses her. There’s a spring in her step he likes, an occasional skip that causes her brilliant red ponytail to swish upwards, and then down again like the delicate flick of a whip. Over the course of their three days together, she’s drunk exactly nine cups of coffee – excluding the other six she’d had with a full half dozen box of lemon cakes. She laughs at his jokes – but only when they’re good, and he appreciates that she never really seems to be trying to get his attention.

It’s a nice change.

So when she throws open her front door, eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise, he gives her the best goofy smile he can muster and holds up the soft green pastry box he’d been carrying. “I know you’re on leave, but I really need you to fix this codpiece. It’s turning my grapes into raisins and my mom wants grandkids.”

Sansa lets out a laugh, and he can’t help but marvel at the way her whole face seems to light up in amusement. “Too tight to dance, eh?”

“Well, it’s your fault,” He supplies. “If you’d actually danced with me when I asked, we’d have figured it out immediately.” A cursory glance inside reveals soft, intimate lighting. The scent of something delicious wafts through the air – spicy and hearty and herbacious. “Are you gonna let me in, or…?”

She sighs, then steps aside. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I? You hungry? I ordered Vietnamese and I can never finish the pho.”

He beams at her. “Starving. And when we’re done, I have lemon tarts for you.”

Sansa’s townhouse feels like her, somehow. A narrow hallway leads deeper into a warm living space, done up in shades of pale blue and grey. She gestures towards the couch – a modern, tufted piece covered in an assortment of pillows and knitted throws – then disappears behind a wood-and-steel partition into the kitchen beyond. “Want a drink?”

“Sure.” He lays down his satchel on herringbone wood floors, then falls back onto the couch with a soft, tired thump. It’s been a long day and his feet ache – among other things – but it’s a comfortable bed of pillows and he’s happy to relax. He doesn’t recognise the movie playing on her flat screen television, but it’s something else that catches his attention – a pale blue pair of canine eyes, so very like Sansa’s own, that watch him from a broad, blanketed armchair by the corner.

The dog studies him silently, unblinking, paws folded primly beneath her body. She’s a beautiful husky, with a thick coat of red and gold and a luxurious tail that pours over the edge of her throne. For a moment or two, she looks as if she might get up, but there is a weary look in those eyes – a soft look, he thinks – that betrays what might be an otherwise regal demeanour. A low, keening whine breaks the silence; then the girl lays down her head once more, watching for her mistress’ arrival.

“I see you’ve met Lady.” Sansa sets down a woven basket tray, then hands him a bowl and a pair of chopsticks. “Don’t get too close. She doesn’t bite usually, but I don’t want to take any chances – least of all when you’ve got a movie to finish filming.”

He grins. “There’s no way she’d bite me. She’s a Lady, isn’t she?”

Sansa rolls her eyes, and the cushions sit as she flops down beside him. “She _can’t_ , because she’s got a fever, and all her joints hurt. Don’t get cocky.” A pause. “I mean, I know it’s the reason you’re here and all, but still.”

The look on his face coaxes a laugh from her, but he can sense the tension bubbling just beneath the surface. The dog doesn’t look nearly old enough to be suffering from joint pain, and he’s had more than enough experience with canine disease. He arches his brow, then forms the query as unobstrusively as possible. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Lyme disease. Someone neglected to vaccinate their dog at the daycare and she caught a bunch of ticks.” She shrugs, sinking further back into her makeshift pillow fort. Her hands aren’t very large, but she does a good job cradling her bowl of noodles in them, close to her chest. “It was a goddamn nightmare. Anyway, she’s on antibiotics, but they don’t seem to be working. We’re just monitoring her for now, which is why I’m working from home this week.”

“Hence the codpiece and the charming creature sitting before you right now.”

“Shut up, Snow, and eat your pho.”

Four episodes of The Good Place, two bowls of pho, five shrimp rice paper rolls and eight beers later, Jon finds himself sprawled on the floor beside Lady. Sansa has long since retreated to her workspace, a brightly-lit set up in her basement – to muffle the sound of hammering, she’d said. He’d cleaned up the dishes, taken out the trash, and put on some coffee for the tarts that they’d been too stuffed to even think about. It’s not often he drinks this much – in fact, it’s not often he drinks at all, but Sansa has a way of making him feel bonelessly comfortable, and he doesn’t really know how, or why, or when he’d lost track of time. And beyond all that, it had felt good to forget about his day – to forget about Dany, and to forget about the guilt that had been gnawing on him since he’d first realised she’d fallen for him.

He promises to shout at himself properly in the morning.

For her part, Lady endures his pats with the grace of royalty, occasionally nuzzling the palm of his hand with her soft, black button nose. Now that he’s closer, he can see that her eyes are a little watery, and her movements stalled, as if every bone needed proper calibration. He strokes her head gently, rubbing at the back of her ears with his thumbs, and she rewards him by shutting her eyes and going to sleep.

It’s warm and comfortable. From the open doorway to the basement, he hears Sansa hum, and he doesn’t know why, but he wants it to go on forever. _You’ve had too much to drink, Jon Snow. Fuck._

He’s out before he knows it.

He dreams about his mother, and despite his rather precarious – and uncomfortable - spot, sleeps through the night. The sun is streaming through the window when he finally comes to, and it takes several long moments for him to understand that he’s an idiot who’s fallen asleep on his colleague’s carpet, beside her dog, who is, understandably, gone. Instead, in Lady’s place, he finds the offending codpiece, two aspirin, a glass of water, and a note:

 

xx

**_Try this on for size._ **

**_PS: You’re late for work._ **

**_PPS: You snored so loudly, you woke Lady. Well done._ **

xx

He swallows the pills and gets to his feet with a groan. _It’s going to be another long day._


	3. Lady's Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wholly unexpected chapter for backstory, plus the tale of how Sansa found Jon dead asleep in her living room.

**20:30 – Los Angeles – Last November**

“Watching terrible TV. It kills all the thought.”

Catelyn Stark lets out a sigh on the other end of the phone. For some reason, phone calls from back home always impart a grainy quality to her mother’s voice. It makes her sound older, somehow – battered and overly-weary. She doesn’t like it. “I don’t know why I bother asking you these things if you’re going to have the same response every time.”

“Admit it, mum, you’re secretly relieved I’m home in my jammies and not out drinking with these LA bigwigs in shady clubs.”

“I’m just worried about you.” Catelyn goes quiet a moment. “Your father would’ve been worried too.”

Her heart does a somersault and freefalls into her gut, where it sits, bubbling in acid and aching so hard she wants to scream. She’s gotten used to it by now, the sinking feeling of despair each time her father is mentioned, but it still hurts.

Even moreso when she remembers that she's meant to be strong for her mum.

 _Stiff upper lip, Sans._ She swallows, reaching for her glass of wine and lamenting the fact that it somehow suddenly seems so very small, and so very inadequate. “I don’t plan on troubling dad while he’s off on his afterlife adventure, so don’t you worry yourself, mum.”

“Well, alright then. You just take care, sweetheart.” She can hear the unmistakeable sound of a car pulling up from the other end, and sure enough, Robb’s voice breaks the momentary silence immediately after. “Robb’s home. You wanna talk to him?”

“Nah, mum. You two have a good dinner, and give the others a hug from me.”

The sound of Arya shouting brings a smile to her face as she hangs up, and it isn’t until she’s sitting in silence once more that she truly understands what it is to be lonely.

It’s been five weeks since the funeral, and two since she’d gotten on the flight back to Los Angeles. Work had taken her to Hollywood more than six years ago, and she hadn’t looked back – hadn’t seen fit to move back home. She still remembers the day she’d left. Her father had brought her to the airport, and it wasn’t until she’d boarded that she’d realised he’d shoved an envelope of money into the water compartment of her backpack, along with a note.

Try as she might, she just can’t remember what he’d written. Not any more. And to make matters worse, she hadn’t been able to find that note, neither.

Before she knows, the tears have welled up in her eyes. She sniffs, then brushes off her nose with the sleeve of her sweater. _I don’t have time to fall apart._ Soft bells sound in the next room – then Lady is bounding at her, all velvet fur and keening whimpers. The bells in her collar continue to ring as she licks at her face, her tongue warm and rough.

 _Like dad’s hands,_ Sansa thinks. “I miss dad,” She tells Lady. “You remember him, don’t you? You were just a puppy when he brought you home for me, but you refused to be parted from him. Not until he told you it would all be okay.”

Lady lays down, leaning heavily against her side. She doesn’t mind the weight. When she wraps an arm about the dog, she lets out a soft and gentle whine. As if in reminder that she’s not alone in her grief.

She wipes away her tears, then buries her face into Lady’s forehead. “It’s all going to be okay, Lady. We’ll be just fine.”

 

* * *

 

**23:15 – Los Angeles – Today  
**

He’s sleeping on the floor by her TV when she finally finishes working his codpiece. Lady is nestled by his side, one fluffy tail curled about his waist. She can’t help but be amused – and admittedly, just a little bit touched.

 _Snow, huh._ Her father aside, she can’t remember the last time Lady had willingly snuggled up to another man. _You have good taste in men._

She sets down the codpiece, then sinks into her couch with a tired sigh. The remnants of her beer is tepid by now, but she downs the rest of it anyway. Part of her wants to wake the sleeping offender, to make sure he gets home safely - wherever the hell that is. The other part of her – the selfish, lonely, part of her wants to kiss him. It would be so easy, she thinks, to lean over – to kiss him, to wake him, and to take him to her bed.

It’s been too long, and she misses it. And, judging by the way he’d looked at her all night – like a fish out of water and a man desperate to drink – he wanted her too.

_Don’t be stupid. It’s a terrible idea._

She takes a long breath, then gets to her feet. Snow barely moves as she shifts his head to slide a pillow under, and it isn’t until she’s done tucking him into one of her woollen blankets that he shows signs of life. One hand comes up to take her own. It’s nothing like the vice-like grips she remembers from previous encounters with drunken exes. Instead, Jon Snow’s grasp is gentle and strong all at once, warmth radiating from his thick hand.

Half asleep, his smile is no less sweet, and at present, touch with just the slightest hints of sheepishness. She suspects he won’t remember in the morning. _What a knobhead._

“’m sorry – sorry, Stark. I’ll get – get out of your hair.”

She feels herself smile. “You’ll wake Lady. Just sleep – it’s okay.”

“Mmkay.” Snow presses a kiss to her hand, his eyes falling quickly shut. He’s out before she can respond, so she tugs her hand gently from his grasp. On impulse, she brings two fingers to her lips, then presses them to his forehead.

“Good to have you here, Snow,” She whispers – and truly believes it.


End file.
